Battle Scars
by Chomjangi
Summary: Late night musings


Title: Battle Scars  
Author: Chomjangi  
Rating: I'll give it an R, to be on the safe side..nothing graphic at all  
Archive: Go for it!  
Spoilers: CAM, GOAC, FFH, MFN1 (go acronyms!)  
Synopsis: Late night musings  
Disclaimer: If I owned The Invisible Man, Arnaud would be visible, Kevin would be alive, and Alex would be rotting in a shallow grave. But I don't.  
Authors note: The muses woke me up tonight for the first time in a while.  
  
Battle Scars  
  
At times like this, I envy Darien Fawkes. With his encyclopedic knowledge of quotes, he'd probably know just the words to describe what I am feeling right now. How nice it must be to be able to use the words of others, instead of struggling, like I always do, to find a way of expressing myself, to find the words that seem to be always caught on the tip of my tongue.   
Its easier, of course, at other times. I can speak in scientific jargon perfectly, describing the most specific details of blood chemistry or the complexity of a quaternary protein structure flawlessly. I can gossip, rant, berate, joke, argue, explain, chat, question; and yet now, trying to describe the feeling overcoming my body, I am struck mute.  
I always used to accuse my ex-husband, Jake, of never telling me what he was feeling. He did, eventually: he told me he was feeling like he was in love with another woman, and that he was feeling like we should get divorced. He never asked me about what I felt. But I wouldn't have had the words to say what I felt even if he had asked.  
Jake was what many women would have considered to be the perfect man. He was smart (a mathematician working for the CIA), good looking (dark haired, blue eyed), tall (6'5), funny (in his opinion). He was exactly the man I had imagined I would fall in love with when I was a little girl, the prince charming who would sweep me off my feet. He was suave. He was charming. He was sophisticated.  
He was, in short, exactly the opposite of Bobby Hobbes.  
The day Jake left, I promised myself that I would never fall in love again, and for five years, I meant it. There were one or two men that came and went, nameless men who meant nothing in the long course of things. Then there were some flings: men who were only bodies who disappeared the next morning with the rising of the sun. And then, for a long while, there was no one. And I thought that I could be happy like that forever.  
It would be easy to convince myself that I was keeping my promise to myself, that I would never let another man into my heart, if it wasn't for the fact that right now I am lying in bed, awake at 1 a.m, with Bobby Hobbes lying sprawled across my body. His head is lying just above my right breast, his body is curled into my side; one of his arms, thrown akimbo over my stomach, is wrapped around my waist holding me to him. His breath is moving softly over my skin, slow and sultry in sleep. He is snoring a little, which isn't bothering me. What is bothering me is something else entirely.  
What's bothering me is that lying here, next to him, feels so right; perfect in a way that was absent when Jake held me. But I want to believe that this is wrong. I shouldn't feel this way about a fellow agent. I shouldn't feel this way about a man that could die tomorrow while trying to protect his country. I shouldn't feel this way about a man who is paranoid, unable to trust anyone in his life. I shouldn't feel this way about a man who has been hurt just like I have, who is just as apprehensive and fearful as I am, who has the same battle scars as I.  
And yet when we made love, all those shouldn'ts seemed to disappear, replaced by this feeling of lightness that I haven't felt in years. I feel awake, and alive, and although it is one in the morning I am wondering how angry he would be if I woke him up and made love to him again. I'm guessing not at all.  
If I was Darien, I would have a quote for this occasion. But all quotes about love I can think of are of the sad Shakespearean variety. The only words that come to my mind are so simplistic, so sappy, so overtly sentimental. And they are perfect.  
"I love you," I whisper. But I don't think he heard me.  
  
Fini  



End file.
